What Passes for Love

wnat passe

other titles by Stan Rogal poetry Sweet Betsy from Pike The Imaginary Museum anthologies Playing in the Asphalt Garden The Last Word

what passes f a collection or snort stori

stan ro

INSOMNIAC PRESS

24- late-night, subwau

while a prince (though admittedly a rare bhhird on the public transit system, there have been well-dhhocumented sightings) may prove to be a down-at-the-heels actor out performing for quarters. Particular times he will tap the shoulder of some such person and ask their business, just to see how close he came to the truth. But no...he never does and for obvious reasons. Obvious to himself. Such as: TRUTH IS A BORE, or, I CAN'T BE BOTHERED, or, I DON'T WANT TO GET IN THEIR WAY. In hahrd fact (in cold truth), he is hhmerely frightened. Not of anything specific; anything you can put your finger on. His fear is irrational. Moreover, he knows it, which only makes things worse. A friend once said to him, if you're so scared, get a gun. Like telling a drowning person to calm down with a drink of water. Face it, if someone like him is walking around carrying a gun, what are the rest sporting? Like, a soldier got on the train one time. He seemed to be a soldier. Dressed in army fatigues and toting a gunny sack. There was an ID tag strung through a loop on the sack and the writing on the tag was foreign — sort of pictorial. Where did he come from? Anything could have been in that sack. A bomb. A machine gun. A capsule of poisonous gas. It makes you wonder: why would a soldier want to kill the passengers on a subway train at two in the morning? The answer is: why not? There are things at work in the world — forces — that we simply cannot comprehend. There are plans in the machinery that will not show themselves for generations. Who knows what effects might spring from apparently minute and meaningless actions? These are processes that are felt rather than known. When the soldier disembarked there was a clearly audible sigh of relief from the car. Whoever the poor bastards

acknowledgem Several of the short stories contained in this book have been published previously: Skin Deep in Glimmer Train; Freckles in Quarry Magazine, Late'Night Subway in Fiddlehead; Home, After All in Blood & Aphorisms; Exhibitionn Playing in the Asphalt Garden;We're RightntheMiddlefItin Dandelion Magazine;The AntGamein The White Wall Review; A Tasteof Apricots in Playing in the Asphalt Garden.

paintings by Kirsten J P.1

p. 1n with Toaster, from the show, "Reflections on Home Economics", oil on wood panel, 48" x 34", 1994

P.9

p. oman with Iron, from the show, "Reflections on Home Economics", oil on wood panel, 44" x 34", 1994

P.21

p. 21WatcherTwo, from the show, "Reflection Home Economics", oil on glass window, 57"x21 1/2", 1994

P.33

p. 55drian & Leska,detail), oil on canvas, 36" x 26", 1989

P.41

p. 41he Gathering, (detail), oil on canvas, 60" x 36", 1

P.5

p.atcher One,from the show "Reflections on Home Economics", oil on glass window, 57" x 21 1/2", 1994

P.67

p. 6jter - rose (Take the tonic), from the show, "Lost Saints Subterfuge", oil on wood panel, 48" x 32", 1993

P.83

p. 55Amber, oil on canvas board, 24" x 30",

P.95

p.?5Ottilie, (detail), oil on canvas, 48"

P.107

p. TO/Angel 4 (feather)detail), from the show, "Exepiphan oil, old paint on wood door, 78" x 32", 1993

skin dee freckles

late-mVht.subwa O J J

nome, after al exhibitio the ant gam

i don't nave a probl once upon a time

we're right in the middle o

a taste of apric notes 12^

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to robyn — stories a

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skin deep

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I

t started a few months back. My wife waking up one morning with someone else's leg. The left leg, I remember. If she was aware of the fact, she never said "boo" to me about it (which was typical for her, her being the type who needed to work'thingS'OUt'forthemselves, leaving everyone else in the lurch), and, of course, I never mentioned a word to her. How could I ? I mean, it's not as though she couldn't know. How could she not know? Waking with one new leg; one leg entirely different from the other? Well, not that they were that different, you understand, but different enough. Different enough to know, that's for sure. I mean, it was plain to me from a quick glance and she was the one — what? — wearing the damn thing. It may have been embarrassing for her. I wouldn't doubt it. Which may be the reason why she didn't bring up the subject. I'll tell you, she was very quick to cover herself with the blankets when she saw me staring at

4- skin de her legs. Her leg. Should I have said something then and there? Confronted her? No. Best not to speak about it. Not yet, at any rate. Leave it in her ballpark. Let her choose the time and place. I could wait. Meanwhile, I watched to see how she would adjust (or how she could adjust, I mean, who could guess what sort of life this leg was used to?) It didn't take her long, actually. I was quite amazed. Oh, she was a bit rocky at first; stumbled getting out of the bed, wavered slightly as she stood, stubbed her toe (the big toe on her original leg, which makes some sense, I suppose, since it was the one suffering at a disadvantage, it attempting to behave as expected and being shanghaied at every turn) against the foot of the night table, staggered toward the bathroom and very nearly crashed into the door frame. Still, once she exited the shower she appeared to be more or less in control and, for the few days that followed, I was hard-pressed to notice any discomfort or difficulty at all. In one way I was pleased with her ability to adapt (she was not one who readily forgave awkwardness of any sort, in herself or others). Conversely, the better she handled the situation, the less likely (or willing) she'd be to confide in me. Which seemed to place me in a rather peculiar position, as if I too sported this foreign leg and was similarly required to realign my parts, my actions, in order to accommodate it. This felt unfair. Still, rather than cause any sort of disagreement or ill-feeling between us, I let things remain as they were, even to the point of not questioning her present habit of changing in the bathroom or wearing long nighties to bed. She was obviously distressed and I knew her well enough not to provoke her with even the mildest sorts of interrogation. Better to let sleeping dogs lie, though I'm unsure

what passes for love 5

as to how much sleep the situation allowed either of us. Certainly, I had problems logging even a couple of hours each night, so imagine her stuck with x pounds of flesh and bone with a mind of. its own. Anyway, no sooner had I become almost content with this conclusion when I discovered that her other leg had been replaced. Or transformed, I don't know which. She'd kicked the covers off in her sleep (her semi-sleep) and the hem of her nightie rode just below her hips. Her legs were perfectly illuminated, bathed in a slice of moonlight. There could be absolutely no mistaking and I thought, perhaps now, she'll speak. Such was not the case. If anything, she became more silent; more reclusive. I began to fear that there was more to this than met the eye, though I couldn't think what. I tried dropping hints; asked her how she was feeling, whether her back was giving her problems, did she want her legs massaged? With each remark she became more irritated until I thought she'd fly into a rage. I decided it was best for all concerned to drop the matter. If she could live with two new legs, then so could I. If only it had ended there, I think I could have been accepting. It was her arm next. Her left arm. Then in rapid succession her right arm, her left shoulder, her right shoulder, her left breast, her right breast — my wife was transforming before my very eyes, metamorphosing into...who? Someone else. A wholly new person. And also, unknown. Completely unknown. It was frightening to watch her, as well as painful. Indeed, it was even problematic. I had to secrete myself in corners, peek through keyholes, drill tiny holes in walls, carefully peel back the many layers of clothing she wore to bed and study her under the thin glow of a pocket flashlight. I admit, for a time I began to wonder if it was me

6 skin de rather than her who was undergoing a transformation. I mean, none of our friends said anything (but then, why. should they, being friends?) When we saw our friends, that is, which we don't, anymore, for one reason or another. A decision was made (or not) by one of us or both of us (I chink, I can't remember) and we stopped. Strangers, on the other hand, would stare and mutter to each other, the way strangers do, at least implying that something was noticeable; something was odd. But what7. My mind filled with doubts. Like, I knew, in my heart of hearts, that my wife formerly had a mole on her right shoulder and that now, it was gone. And yet I wondered, was there ever really a mole there, or was her shoulder always so smooth, so white? Were her breasts (which I once knew intimately and which now I find grotesque, unable to touch them, barely able to look at them except as cold, objective evidence) actually larger or smaller than these she now carries? I took to memorizing what was left of her (what I knew, or thought I knew, to be left of her). I made notes. I drew rough sketches. The changes continued: her back, her tummy, her buttocks, her hips, that gently matted area she once described as containing "the jewels of the mountain." I compared the new parts with my notes and sketches. They were similar, yes, but not the same. Definitely not the same. Hadn't the navel once been round and now it is oval? But then, what is the difference between the words "round" and "oval" and how much does it take, really, for one to become the other and vice versa? Hadn't there been more hair lodged between her legs? Or were the sketches poorly drawn in the first place due to the dim light? Had I smudged whole areas in my haste? I mean, I'm no artist, and yet...This morning her face had trans-

what passes for love /

formed. How could I ever forget or mistake this? Its shape; the precise position of her eyes, her nose, her lips which I had kissed thousands of times in the past? The manner in which her hair curled and fell. It did curl, didn't it? Yes! It did curl! In lovely blonde (brunette? auburn?) tresses draping across her shoulders (or short-cropped, straight above her ear lobes?) But what does all this matter, these "physical" things which are highly problematic at the best of times and really next-to-nothing in themselves anyway? It is her behaviour which is most indicative, most revealing; her actions; her attitudes. These are what show her to be other'than-herselfand so,suspect(if not thoroughly dangerous). She has become distant, secretive, even hostile. I recall one or two times when she had discovered me jammed into a closet or pressed against a window or waking some nights to catch me "examining" (her word) her like some "insect" (again, her word) under a microscope and "What the hell was I doing? What was I looking for? What was wrong with me?" With me? She still refused to admit, still refused to take me into her confidence, and so I'd have to make up some excuse like, I lost my pencil (and what was I writing, a letter to my dead mother?) or a match or I was merely interested in the pattern on the sheet. Lame, I know, but better than forcing the issue (and who knows [and why not?], perhaps she had become accustomed, was even happy, with what was happening to her). At any rate, it is reasonably clear to me that I am losing my wife; that, inevitably, either tomorrow morning or the morning after or the morning after that (one morning, for sure), I'll wake beside a woman whose entire inner workings will have metamorphosed; whose mind will have shifted to such a degree that her memories will

8 skin deep consist of a different life, a different house and, moreover, a different husband. In short, this woman will wake to see me as a perfect stranger in her bed. Then, what calamity will occur (for a calamity must occur, make no mistake)? She might scream. She might run into the street calling for a policeman. She might attempt to run me through with some sharp object. Naturally, I've taken certain precautions. I've hidden her scissors, her knitting needles, her nail file, her shoes with the spiked heels. I've removed any blunt, heavy objects. I've even taken the glass from the picture frames. I know all of this is driving her crazy; she can't find a thing she's looking for, but, better safe than sorry. I've emptied the savings account, the car is gassed up and ready to roll, my bags are packed, there's a Smith & Wesson under the pillow (though I'm not so sure it hasn't changed by now as well, having shed its metal skin and lies in wait, coiled and fanged with the oily aspect of a rattlesnake). Well, whatever. One can only prepare for so much. The rest is simple accident.

freclcl

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W

ell, like they say: the worst I ever had was great and, yeah, to be honest, this time it'd been OK. It wasn't bad. It was all right. I mean, what can you expect? It's a natural progression, right? You sleep with the same person over and over and it can't always be like in the movies, all bells and fireworks. That goes without saying and you have to accept it as fact. And not only her — me too. Me too. You know, sometimes you're not quite into it, or you're tired or there's something weighing on your mind — whatever — yet somehow you want to a little bit more than you don't want to (this is you or the other person or the both of you now, you understand) or you figure it might be just what you need at the time when maybe it isn't or — who knows? And so you do. You do, and usually, for the most part, it's OK. It's nice. You do it and no one's nose is out of joint and you say goodnight in a civilized way and you roll over and go to sleep. And that's how it had begun.

12 freckles

We had climbed into bed and she said she'd like a little snuggle, and there had been no hint beforehand and it was the furthest thing from my mind, but I thought, sure, what the hell, why not, and 1 obliged, except during the whole time after she'd got me up and in, she sort of disappeared on me, you know? Like her mind was fixed on something other than the fact of me working away inside her. Which, again, was not unusual. I mean, I knew by this that she was not in the mood for an orgasm, just a snuggle, and I could enjoy myself and not have to worry about her. So 1 did, then rolled off and gave her a hug, a kiss; you know. It was OK, like I said. Nice. It was nothing new up until then, only this is the time she decides to tell me, while I'm lying back all comfy-cozy, relaxed and loving her, right? I mean, on the one hand, you'd think that would be the absolute worst time, but on the other, it makes a lot of sense, when you think about it. I mean, the same sort of thing happened when she banged up the car. And when she quit her job. She waited for the exact same time to tell me. And you can't blame her. I mean, there is no best time or right way. What I'm saying, I guess, is that it's something like when the cat drops a dead bird at the foot of the bed — you're sorry for the bird, but the cat's just trying to make up for something or show its affection and it's not really the cat's fault. Of course, this was something entirely different and really not in the same category at all as cars and jobs. I mean, you know what I'm talking about. This was different. This was something else and I don't have to spell it out, you understand. I mean, to tell the truth, I have a lot of trouble even thinking about it, never mind saying it. For her though, the words just spilled out. And maybe that's best too, in these situations. No

what passes for fancy footwork. No beating around the bush. Just sharp and clean, like the surgeon's knife, ?i£>: "I've been sleeping with someone else." Just like that, she says it, and it's out in the open, hanging in the air like some kind of...I don't know...thing. I can't describe it. I can't begin to describe it. You're kind of stunned at first, and then all the machinery starts in motion and it's all automatic and you've got no say in what happens after that. And this is really funny (not funny, y'know, like it wasn't funny; no one was laughing; I sure as hell wasn't laughing; it was strange is what it was; strange-funny) because the first thing that popped into my head wasn't the first thing that I would've expected, given the circumstances. And maybe that's the way it happens all the time too, for everyone, I don't know. Maybe there's been a study, but I haven't heard of it. It's sort of embarrassing now, I guess, to say it, but the first thing that popped into my head — and remember, I had absolutely no control over this myself — the first thing was: Betty; which makes me question what the hell goes on inside a person, eh? Really. I mean, you think you've got a pretty good idea about who someone is, or a better idea about a close friend or the person you're married to, though not completely, not everything about them. So you count on a few surprises now and then, but with yourself, you figure you should know what to expect in a given situation. Right? Well, no way. I never expected this. Not in a million years. But there it was. I started thinking about Betty and that time two years ago. I couldn't help it; I could only lie back and watch. It was her last day with the company. As the story went, she had a job lined up in Vancouver and

14 freckle she was hopping a plane early the next day. So the girls had prepared a little do for her in the afternoon — wine and cheese and stuff — and the guys could drop in or not. There was nothing too personal between Betty and me, we were on speaking terms and that was about it. We worked in different areas of the company, our paths crossed occasionally, we said hello'how-are' you; that sort of thing. Still, I stopped by and offered my best wishes. To tell the truth, I was more interested in the drinks and sandwiches. Not that there was anything wrong with Betty. She was nice enough. A bit on the quiet side; shy maybe. She wasn't my type, that's for sure. Not bad looking, but twenty pounds overweight and red hair, which never appealed to me. And freckles, man, did she have freckles. Her face and arms were covered with them. I don't know, I could never see myself going to bed with a woman whose breasts were freckled. Or her pussy. Don't ask why; it's just something that puts me off. At any rate, she split early (she said she had to do a few last-minute things and finish packing) and I hung around making small talk with the rest of the girls until the wine was gone. I was going to go home after that, but decided I wasn't in the mood. The wine had given me a bit of a buzz and I felt like continuing. Besides, the wife was out for the night taking a drawing lesson, then dinner with a friend, etcetera. Perfect. I jumped into the car and drove to a bar I knew closer to home. There were plenty of places nearby, but I like to avoid being flagged over by the cops if I can help it. Also, the job situation's tough enough as it is without being spotted by a client or a boss or even a fellow employee. The word gets around, the story grows, and the next thing you know,

what passes for love you're pegged as someone with a problem. After that, it's a short walk to the unemployment line. Anyway, I arrive at the bar and who do I see but Betty, sitting at a table in the corner, by herself and working on what turns out to be her third rum and coke. Now, I never in my wildest dreams would've expected to see her in a place like this, alone, drinking double rum and cokes, but there she was. Well, if she hadn't turned at that moment and spotted me, I probably would've just backed out and left. I didn't want to be involved. But she did see me, so I walked over and said hello and she started crying. She had been crying but now she really broke down. Seems she wasn't going to Vancouver after all. Her boyfriend had dumped her, she was pregnant, she had planned to go in for an abortion, except now she wasn't. sure if she wanted to go through with it; like, maybe she should have the baby. You could've knocked me over. Who'd've thought it? I tried to console her; bought her another drink, wiped her eyes, yeah, most men are. assholes and so on and so forth, and...to make a long story short (don't ask me how it happened, it just did) we ended up going at it in the back of her van (now that's another thing...I never much saw her as a van person either, but there you go) except, when it came to the crucial moment, that is, when she'd made up her mind to write the boyfriend off for good and she was ready for me to slip it in, I suddenly started thinking: What am I doing? I'm happily married. I've been married for eight years and I haven't screwed around once. Maybe toyed with the idea once or twice, that's natural, but never done it. I love my wife. I love my kids. Do I want to maybe lose it all for this? I mean, who is this woman? What is she

\6 freckle

capable of? She's in a desperate position, after all. So, I tuck it back in my pants. I tell her she's a bit mixed up at the moment, a bit drunk (I'm a bit drunk) and I don't want to take advantage of her and everything will work out in the end, etcetera. And I zipped up and left. I never saw her again. I don't what happened to her. She might've thrown herself in the lake for all I knew. I felt bad. I did. But what else could I do? I checked for her name in the papers for weeks. I watched for her at the bar. Nothing. No sign. So, I more or less forgot about her. And then, the next thing, I'm lying there in bed and my wife is telling me what she told me and I'm thinking: What a first-class jerk. Why didn't I do it when I had the chance? I could've. I should've. I was a fool not to. I mean, what a stupid, middle-class, bullshit attitude, you know? What I'm saying is, that's what I mean when I ask what goes on inside someone. I mean, what was it that made me think that way with Betty two years ago and what was it that made me think of her after my wife told me...you know, and I was lying there? I don't know. All I know is, that's what flashed through my mind. I couldn't think of anything else, only: You dumb bastard! So I got up, cleaned myself off, got dressed and walked out the door. I didn't say a word. I must've had some idea of where I was going, what I was going to do, but I'm not sure. Mostly, it was a blur. It was like I'd shifted into automatic pilot. I was totally out of touch. I certainly wasn't inside myself. No way. I was further outside myself than I think I'd ever been. It was like watching a movie of myself. One of those old home movies, all grainy and jerky.

what passes for love \J

So, what did I do? Just what you'd expect. I drove to the liquor store. Except it was closed. It had been closed for hours. I thought: For chrissakes, what sort of anal retentive country is this that prevents someone from buying a bottle after 9 p.m.? Then I remembered there were a couple of bottles of red wine under the seat. I'd bought them for something. I don't know what, but sure enough, there they were! Now that's more like it, I thought. I cracked one and started guzzling. I just kept driving and drinking until the bottle was empty. Next thing I know, I'm pulling into the parking lot of a bar — the same bar, mind you, which I guess is no big deal since I'd often come by since, it's just that things seemed to be adding up to something in a peculiar way. I tossed the empty into the back and tucked the full one under the front seat. I went into the bar and ordered a scotch with a beer chaser. I knew the guy behind the bar. His name was Dave. He asked how I was doing and I told him terrific, never better. He said that's the way and gave me my drinks. I didn't want to talk. I wanted to be drunk. That's it. So drunk that I wouldn't have to face all those questions I knew were bound to arise surrounding that single statement: I've been sleeping with someone else. But it's like when someone you love dies. You can all of a sudden consume vast quantities of alcohol to no effect. Or maybe you are affected but you don't know it. Maybe you have to rely on a second opinion to know what shape you're really in. I asked Dave. "Do I look drunk to you?" "Man," he said, "from where I stand, if you can ask that question you must be either very drunk or very sober."

18 freckl

So there you go. I finished the scotch and ordered another. I began to look around the room. There was a guy playing piano. Not very well. A regular. I'd seen him before. There were two couples shooting pool. Another couple sat holding hands at a table. Around the bar there was an old Chinese gentleman dressed in a black suit and a white shirt. He looked like an undertaker. He was reading a racing form and sipping on a beer. Two seats away from him was a woman, fortyfivish, skinny with too much make-up, grinning beside a young guy who was entertaining her by rolling a coin between his fingers. She'd take long drags from her cigarette, tilt her head back and blow smoke in a line toward the ceiling, where it would quietly explode. Then I noticed, way back in a corner, in a booth, sitting alone, a red-haired woman, and I thought: no, it can't be, not after two years, not tonight. Yet she looked familiar. I asked Dave what she was drinking and he told me double rum and cokes. He smiled. I ordered another scotch, another beer, a rum and coke and headed over. It was Betty all right, and she recognized me. She offered me a seat, pleasant-like, as though we had just seen each other yesterday. She looked good. Thinner, I thought. We talked. Not about anything. Just talked. We ordered more drinks. I crept closer to her, or she crept closer to me. At any rate, we were soon pressed together in the booth, whispering to each other, rubbing our hands over each other's legs beneath the table. When the bar closed, Betty said she was in the mood for another drink. I told her I had a bottle of wine in my car and asked her if she still owned that van. She did. I grabbed the jug and away we went.

what passes for love 1?

I thought, this time things will be different. Nothing unexpected. Last time, we were piss-eyed drunk; our clothes were half-on, half-off. I remember wanting it that way: I didn't want to see her body. I thought it might disgust me, so I'd kept my eyes closed, or else fixed on an earring or a small white area on her cheek. This time, I wanted to look. I wanted to see her pale skin swarming with reddish freckles. I undressed her slowly, undid her bra and placed my finger on a freckle that sat on her chest at the point where the breast begins to swell. Then I placed my finger on another, and another. I began to count them, even though I knew it was impossible. My finger travelled slowly down and around her nipple; then to her belly, her hip, her thigh and between her legs. Her body rose toward me; she grabbed hold of me, pulled me on top of her and guided me inside her. I felt her freckles shift between our flesh like strange, exotic fish. At least, I imagined it was happening. It was beautiful. When we were done, she left. There was no mention of the past, no messy questions about what we do next or where do we go from here. It had happened and it was over. I got into my car and went home. What else could I do? I pulled into the drive, parked, got out, walked up the steps, through the door, into the living room and down the hall. I pushed open the bedroom door. There was my wife, still sitting up in bed. And there, also, was me, my head tucked beneath her breasts, against her belly. We were both crying. She was rocking me in her arms, saying: Don't cry. Don't cry. My finger was tracing a tiny freckle on her hip. My lips were moving. I was counting.

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H

e is the only passenger in the car. Not too unusual. He works until midnight, always has a few beers to unwind, catches the last subway train home. Once in a while he goes the whole trip without seeing a single person get on or off. Once in a while. Though not often. More often there are others. People like him who work late, or party late, or are night-owl/insomniac types, or have nowhere else to go, nothing to do. Who knows; maybe there have always been folks getting on and off and he failed to notice. Maybe. Though he suspects not. He maintains a peculiar pride in considering himself quite perceptive in this matter. It's a game with him: people-watching. Try and guess who they are, what they do, where they're coming from and going to. Depending on his mood and the amount of beer he's consumed, his imaginings fluctuate considerably and a shabbily dressed individual might take on the attitude of a disguised prince,

24- late-night, s while a prince (though admittedly a rare bird on the public transit system, there have been well-documented sightings) may prove to be a down-at-the-heels actor out performing for quarters. Particular times he will tap the shoulder of some such person and ask their business, just to see how close he came to the truth. But no...he never does and for obvious reasons. Obvious to himself. Such as: TRUTH IS A BORE, or, I CAN'T BE BOTHERED, or, I DON'T WANT TO GET IN THEIR WAY. In hard fact (in cold truth), he is merely frightened. Not of anything specific; anything you can put your finger on. His fear is irrational. Moreover, he knows it, which only makes things worse. A friend once said to him, if you're so scared, get a gun. Like telling a drowning person to calm down with a drink of water. Face it, if someone like him is walking around carrying a gun, what are the rest sporting? Like, a soldier got on the train one time. He seemed to be a soldier. Dressed in army fatigues and toting a gunny sack. There was an ID tag strung through a loop on the sack and the writing on the tag was foreign — sort of pictorial. Where did he come from? Anything could have been in that sack. A bomb. A machine gun. A capsule of poisonous gas. It makes you wonder: why would a soldier want to kill the passengers on a subway train at two in the morning? The answer is: why not? There are things at work in the world — forces — that we simply cannot comprehend. There are plans in the machinery that will not show themselves for generations. Who knows what effects might spring from apparently minute and meaningless actions? These are processes that are felt rather than known. When the soldier disembarked there was a clearly audible sigh of relief from the car. Whoever the poor bastards

what passes for love 25

were who were targeted, it was not those present on the train. He is the only passenger in the car. Not too unusual. He considers the fact that the train makes every stop. The doors open, the doors close, no one gets on or off. A waste of time and energy. He's on his way home. It's costing him time. Except, he isn't in a hurry. He experiences no sense of loss. So long as he's home in time to turn around and go back to work, he doesn't care. The train is comfortable. He's never bored. He can read the advertisements. TAKE THE BUS TO MONTREAL! He doesn't mind the bus part, but why would he want to go to Montreal? GIVE THE UNITED WAY! You bet. Comes right off the old paycheque and the company matches penny for penny. THE CARAMILK SECRET! Cute. Tiny elves drilling holes into the chocolate. Things they do to grab your attention. Still, he thinks, how do they get the caramel filling in? A gorgeous babe kisses a guy's cheek because of the cologne he wears. Definitely. Believe it. AFFORDABLE DOWNTOWN CONDOS STARTING AS LOW AS $199,000! He doesn't think so. BLUE JAYS' BASEBALL! CALL FOR A BLUE! Right on! Should've had another one tonight. Enough time, just...Just w h a t ? DO YOU KNOW SOMEONE WHO'S AN ALCOHOLIC? Man, he thinks, if he's an alcoholic, everyone's an alcoholic. Couple of beers. He counts the empty seats: ninety-six. He is the only passenger in the car. Not too unusual. Though unusual for this long. Normally fun to try and guess how many people will be at the next stop and what they'll look like. The beautiful blonde that catches

26 late-night, your eye and it's instant meltdown. Oh yeah, baby! Except, the expectation tonight is zilch. Or else a phoney blonde packing a chainsaw, or a pack of wild dogs, or a bunch of zombies with blood dripping from their teeth. He should be so lucky. Meaning, when a figure appears on the platform, he is not overly enthusiastic. No bodacious blonde, no crazed mutts or recycled corpses. A woman. A woman reading a magazine. Well, the ground shifts but the game stays the same. Will the car stop in front of her? Will she enter? It does; she does. He picks at a thread in his pants and peeks at her. There are six empty seats immediately around him. She will move deliberately to a seat on the other side of the train to him and back. This is natural behaviour. It shows confidence and provides an air of casual indifference to the situation. To behave any other way would be to show: 1) that she has noticed him, and 2) that his presence governs her choice of seat. In other words, to move too slowly, with too much forethought, is to show fear. He decides on the seat she will most likely take. His eyes lean further toward the thread. Her eyes remain glued to the pages of the magazine. She sits beside him. What? He freezes. Something is not right with this picture. Not because she isn't the beautiful blonde and their eyes failed to meet in a way that promised the gates of heaven etcetera. No. That is fantasy plain and simple and not something he gives in to, only explores; like going to a movie you know will end in two hours with you leaving the theatre on your own, though a bit more warm and glowy. This is a different animal altogether. His body shrinks to allow as much distance between him and her as possible. She, however, is expansive, her entire form breathing the limit of its space and

what passes f encroaching barely on his, with the threat that, at any moment, their peripheries may come into contact and the two will touch, be it ever so lightly. His knees clench as if in slow motion, obtaining the tightest character while rousing the least suspicion. What is she thinking, to sit so near to a perfect stranger, alone on the subway, at this hour of the morning? Is she a hooker searching for a last trick? If so, she has a funny way of making a John feel comfortable. He doubts it. He knows the behaviour of hookers. She'd sit directly across from him, playing with the hem of her skirt, smoothing her legs, fondling her breasts, getting his attention with a lick of the lips, a roll of the eyes. She is no hooker. Not even dressed like a hooker. Plain. A few pounds overweight. Wrapped in a dull beige trenchcoat. Her feet hushed in sneakers. Little makeup. How can he tell? He sees her reflection in the window across the aisle. Definitely not his type, yet...alone on the train, a few beers, 2 a.m.... Has she even noticed him? Not likely. So engrossed in her magazine she doesn't realize. And if she does (when she does), what then? An embarrassing position for them both, he guesses. Perhaps if he knew what she is reading? Impossible to read the title of the magazine in the window. He could turn his head to the magazine itself, but that would be too obvious. He knows one must be delicate. He straightens and leans back, keeping his hands in his lap. In his lap? He quickly clasps his hands and manoeuvres them to the left side of his hips, careful not to touch her accidentally with his right elbow. Now his head is behind hers. Good. There she is in the window. If she glances up, she'll see him sitting beside her, gazing at her in the window. But, she doesn't glance up. She reads, with a sort of intense relaxation.

26 late-night, subwa How nice that must be, he thinks, to be so absorbed in a single activity; to be so calm and assured, without any visible thought or effort. Is it the material in the magazine? Or the mere act of reading? He braves a brief glimpse — almost a non-glimpse. Something LIFE magazine. She's reading a magazine called something LIFE. He feigns a yawn and manages a closer look. An advertisement for a new car. How can anyone be so intent over an ad? AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION, standard. ANTI-LOCK BRAKE SYSTEM, standard. ALLWEATHER RADIALS, standard. COMBINATION AM/FM RADIO/CD PLAYER, standard. Well, that's a nice touch. THE ONLY THING THAT ISN'T STANDARD IS THE PRICE. Maybe, but can she afford it at any price? Does she really want to buy a car or does she just like the ad? Is she fantasizing? Does she have a general interest in cars? Perhaps she's an auto mechanic? Or is she actually aware of the situation she's gotten herself into and is covering herself within the glossy print of this ad? If he keeps his head behind hers then turns and leans toward her he can put the reflection of his tongue into the reflection of her ear. He's played this game in the past. Often. No harm done. He doesn't do it now, though; he doesn't quite trust her. He grins a little grin remembering all the ears his tongue has tickled. When the correct moment presented itself. Unbeknownst and all. CHRIST! She moved. She shifted her weight in the seat. Her left knee tipped outward. He could feel it tap his right knee. He can feel it. What to do? To move now would admit their knees are in contact; would admit his discomfort. Why hadn't he removed his knee immediately? Because his thoughts were elsewhere. Because he had allowed his mind to wander. Not allowed, exactly. It

what passes for love 2!)

just had and now he was having to pay the price. Of course, the longer he failed to act the more difficult it would be. But then, why should he be the one to restore equilibrium? He had done everything in his power to preserve a safe and reasonable distance between the two of them. She's the one constantly overstepping the boundaries. She's the one who should furnish a remedy. Unless she desires physical contact? Is that it? Is she making a play? Perhaps she's lonely. Perhaps she's one of those married, middle-aged women who roam the streets for some anonymous excitement. Is she wearing a wedding ring? Difficult to tell. The reflection shows numerous rings. Is one a wedding ring? Remember, the reflection reverses and distorts, so that...But, wouldn't she remove her wedding ring if she was on the prowl? Not necessarily. He squints in an effort to further consider her reflection. She ain't ugly, he thinks. Ain't beautiful, ain't ugly. Just kind of...hard to judge really, with the magazine blocking the lower half of her face. Handsome eyebrows. Not too thick. And her nose is...classic! The way it sits like that, between her eyes. Cheeks a tad on the chubby side. She might be a bit younger than she looks. Or older. Not bad, overall. Hold on a second, he thinks. Let's not get carried away. The whole thing might be an accident. Best to suss out the situation. Make sure. I'll just cough, he decides, move my knee and see if she goes for me again. He coughs. Nothing happens. Their knees remain flush. Did he move or only think he moved? Did she follow his move? He coughs again. His leg twitches. Their knees stay together. OK, he thinks, two can play this game. He reverses the tactic, applying pressure to her knee this time. That's odd. There appears to be no resistance.

3O late-night, subwat)

Not no-resistance, where we say a woman resists the advances of a man, just, her knee provides no physical resistance to his own. His knee, in fact, seems to sink into her knee, as in quicksand. He, naturally, cannot see this, only feels it and is, understandably afraid to investigate. Instead, he squeezes his eyelids shut, concentrates on his leg muscles and, beginning gently, then actually straining, tries to ease/yank his knee from hers. Nothing. Nowhere. Struggle as he might, he is unable to produce any motion in an opposite direction. He relaxes, opens his eyes, stares into the window and down to the seat. As he suspected! His knee half-hidden in hers. Yet, this is impossible, and he knows it. His knee, he thinks, is not being eaten by hers. This is a trick of optics aided by her soft flesh, her loose clothing. But why is he unable to separate his knee from hers? Likely the leg has gone to sleep. He believes he is in control of his muscles when, in truth, the muscles are numb. What he must do is shift his entire weight a few inches to the left and drag the dead portion with him. She can interpret his action any way she wishes. Absorbed as she is in that magazine, she'll hardly notice or care one way or another. Besides, what would she imagine anyway, to witness his knee practically on top of her own? No, this is by far the best course of action, though requiring a certain amount of delicacy. He manages a space between the two of them by wiggling his butt back and forth and sliding to the left. He unclasps his hands, stretches his back, slips his fist into the crack and prepares to raise himself for the final push. She adjusts her position. Not largely and with simple ease. The back of his wrist brushes her hip. He images the wrist and hip coupling like two train cars. She continues reading. What can he do? Tell her they

what passes for love 51

are joined at two locations? No. The story is too preposterous. She'd think he was crazy. Show her? Again, no. Who can tell what her reaction might be? She might get violent and perform some damage upon him or to herself. Either way, given the situation, he'd suffer. He is familiar with stories of Siamese twins. The fact that one can get drunk and leave the other to suffer the hangover. Or have sex and leave the virgin sister pregnant. And when one or the other died, the second follows rapidly. Is this his fate? To be welded to this woman for life? They'd have to find work in a circus. But what circus would have them? They'd be suspected as frauds. Siamese twins are always the same sex. Who'd believe a man and woman without some idea of underhandedness? Besides, we're different colours. Many things can be explained away to chance or circumstance, but not biology. The train jars and his hand and elbow melt into her. Moreover, his knee has all but vanished along with a portion of his thigh. Is now the time to panic? The woman remains focused on her magazine; unconcerned; unbothered. A cool head, he thinks, is the requirement. Stay calm. If this is happening (and there is the possibility that it isn't), then he must be prepared to weigh alternatives and cope with new developments. Still there is no denying some sense of urgency. He is in up to his shoulder, down to his ankle. He twists his body as best he can and reaches down with the pretence of retrieving an object from the floor. He clutches his pant cuff and tugs. No use. The foot stays wedded to hers. He yanks at the cuff. It tears and the entire foot snaps out of sight behind an old white sneaker and a red sock. She's wearing jeans under her coat, he notices. His leg and hip fight against the undertow and are lost. Everything is occur-

52 late-night, subwat) ring rapidly. He raises his left foot and jams it between the seats, uncaring whether she spots his strange behaviour or not. If his actions irritate her, she'll have to deal with them in her own way as best she can. He is losing his shoulder. Impulsively (to save his own neck, so to speak), he aims to brace himself against her body with his left leg. The leg fails to secure solid ground and dissolves before his terrified eyes, sucking his hip and back in along with it. He cranes his neck and cranks his head in an effort to keep from drowning completely in this impassive sea. He focuses on the side of the woman's face. How radiant she appears, bathed in the sharp contours and merciless white light of the train car. So round. So soft. So beautiful. Everything goes black. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then, perhaps thinking better of it, perhaps not knowing what to say, closes his lips and feels his skin enveloped in warm, moist darkness. The train stops. The doors gape. The woman lowers her magazine, rises from her seat and exits, walking briskly along the platform toward the stairway. The doors shut. The train is swallowed by the tunnel.

home, aft — for Raumond C

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W

hat is it?" There is no reply from Jim as he continues working the key into the lock. "Is something wrong?" Still no reply. Harriet adjusts the weight of her shoulder bag. "Is it the right key?" "Course it's the right key." "Well..." "It's not the key. The key's working." Jim leans into the door and gives it a slight push. "Stuck?" "No. It must be the deadbolt." "That's not possible." "Maybe not. But I think it's on." "Then Bill must be inside. Or Arlene." "Why would they have the deadbolt on?" "How should I know? Habit, maybe. Maybe they're... busy." "Busy?"

5

"Yeah, well, she kind of likes a tree to look like a tree." "Exactly. And nothing wrong with that, God knows. Variety being the spice of life, etcetera, and no reason to cause problems for a relationship; no reason at all." Bernard headed for the back room. "Excuse me. A few last-minute details. Pour a drink and relax. I'll send Francine back out to you. Get to know each other." "Thanks. I'll do that." Karl poured a glass of red wine and studied the paintings mounted on the wall. He shook his head. Are these mine? he thought. They've got my name on them but I don't remember doing them. There's been some mistake. I don't belong here. Who am I trying to kid? I had a good job once. A damn good job. What was I thinking? I must've been nuts. I was nuts.

As far as Karl was concerned, the opening was a farce. No one seemed interested in either him or his paintings. People came and went in rapid succession, filling up on the wine and cheese and speaking with whomever could do them the most good. Bernard performed the polite introductions, which began and ended with the quick handshake and obligatory well done and good show. But what had he expected? He didn't know. Near the end of the evening, Francine tapped him on the shoulder. "How's it going?" "Fine, I suppose. No one's thrown a punch." "This is fairly typical. You get used to it." "Mmm." "Really, no need to worry. Everyone knows that Bernard discovers and shows only the best of the new wave. You'll be in the morning papers."

5O exhibit

"There were reviewers here?" "Oh, yes. Some here, some not here. Doesn't matter. They'll all have to come up with beautiful words and grand theories to describe you and your work. Some of it may even be close to the truth. Take my advice: enjoy it, then forget about it." "I see. It's business." "Exactly. That's what they do. It's their job. Your job is to paint, and show up to perform the necessary social obligations. Anyway, there's a party up the street where I'm staying. Younger crowd. Not so formal." "I don't know if I'm up to a party." "Oh, you have no choice. You're the guest of honour. Besides, I'm supposed to take care of you; fill you in; introduce you. It's my job. Bernard tells me that you're practically a virgin to the art scene."

Francine was right. The new gathering was less formal and the guests were younger. In fact, the suite was choked with people leaning against walls, crashing on furniture, laid out across the carpet. Everyone appeared to be smoking and the air was thick with haze. The first thing Karl did was light up, then a joint was passed his way and he took a hit. This is better, he thought, and started to relax. He looked around for Francine, who had gone for drinks. A woman came by holding a rolled-up bill and a small mirror with half a dozen white lines running across it. Karl passed. The woman grinned, shrugged her shoulders and moved on. Another joint made the rounds. Karl took a deep drag and held it in. It was good grass and he could feel it taking effect already.

what passes for love 51

"Hear that? That's Bird. Man, he could play." "What?" Karl turned toward the voice. It came from a slim, pale young man with watery red eyes. "Bird, man. Charlie Parker. You never heard of Charlie Parker?" His tone was accusatory. Karl was going to say something when another voice jumped in. "You're fulla shit, asshole. That's not Charlie Parker. That's Dexter Gordon, man. You're fulla shit." Karl walked away, leaving the two to argue between themselves. What did it matter to him who was playing? As far as he was concerned, you either liked the song or you didn't. Parker, Gordon — what difference did it make? It was the music that counted. Like choosing between a Picasso or a Rockwell or a finger painting your eight-year-old kid did in school — you're going to hang up the one you like and that's art. Between the wine and the dope and the bullshit, Karl was feeling testy. Yeah, he thought, I'm in the mood to match my ignorance against someone else's arrogance. At that moment, Bernard rushed over with a good-looking man in tow. "Well done, Karl. Well done. Extraordinary. It was wonderful tonight. Marvellous. Everyone was impressed. Totally, totally — impressed." Bernard burped lightly, laughed, gave the young man a squeeze around the waist and wove his way back into the crowd. Karl noticed that the two guys arguing about the music had called in reinforcements to back their positions. Why not look at the name on the goddamn cover, he thought. Then it struck him that this party was also "just business." None of these people were artists; they were the art scene. Karl looked at his hand and saw that a drink had somehow materialized. It was a large scotch, neat. He threw it back and tried to find his way

52 exhibition

to the door. "You ready to leave?" It was Francine. "Me too. C'mon. My room is down the hall."

It was all too much for Karl. He let himself be led. Francine seemed pretty high herself. She was giggling and making little sighing, snorting sounds through her nose. She dragged Karl to the bed and began to undress him. "Is this just business too?" He had wanted to hurt someone, earlier, in the other room, but it had come out now and he was surprised and angry at himself. He was about to apologize except that Francine continued without missing a beat. Had he spoken? Had she heard? She pulled down his pants, rubbed his thighs with her hands, then gazed up at him. "It's my business." She giggled. The snorting sounds continued. She slipped out of her clothes and the two of them jumped beneath the covers. They kissed. Karl fondled Francine's breasts and her low snorts grew louder. "Is everything all right?" asked Karl. "What do you mean?" "The sounds you're making...I don't know if you're excited or if something's, like...wrong." "Oh, no. Everything's fine. It's when I drink, something happens to my adenoids; they swell or something and it affects my breathing. Especially during sex. But no, I'm OK." "OK." Karl was not totally comfortable with the snorting but figured if Francine was really interested, he'd try and give her a good time. He licked her nipples

what passes for love ^5

and began working his tongue down her belly and between her legs. She stopped him and drew his head back up to hers. "No. I know that you're trying to be sweet but, I just don't like it." "No?" "No. It...I just...I don't like it." "Oh. OK." "I should also tell you, I don't orgasm either. I mean, I do, but only when I do it myself. When I'm alone." "Uh-huh. Listen, are you sure you want to...you know?" "Yes. I want to. I mean, I enjoy it and all, I just don't come. So you don't have to feel obligated to, like, wait for me or anything. Enjoy yourself whenever you're ready, you know? I'll be fine." "Fine?" "I mean, it's all right. I enjoy a man inside me." "You just don't come?" "No." Francine searched with her hand between Karl's legs and found him only partially erect. "It's OK. Really." "I know, but..." She shoved her tongue into his mouth and pulled him on top of her. Karl stiffened and was about to enter her when she snorted. "Your condom or mine?" "What?" "Did you bring a condom?" "Well, no, I didn't. I didn't think..." Francine rolled out from under Karl and produced a condom from the bedside table. "This is the '90s, after all. Better safe than sorry. You do wear one, don't you?" She tore open the package. Karl stared numbly. "I mean, Bernard told me that you

^4- exhibitio

have a partner." Francine attempted to fit the rubber but Karl's slight erection withered under her touch. "What's the matter?" "Nothing." Karl tugged at his short beard. "I don't know. The dope, maybe. The excitement. I don't know. I have to go." "Maybe you just need a few minutes." "No. It's better if I go. Really." Karl slid out of the bed and got dressed. He crossed the room, opened the door and left without looking back.

Karl went into the bathroom, undressed, washed, then tiptoed into the bedroom. He saw Beth curled up on her side of the bed clutching a pillow, her back to him. He slipped in beside her. "You're late." "Mmm." "What time is it?" "I don't know. Aren't you already asleep? You should be asleep." "I wanted to know how it went." "It went OK. I'm going to wake up famous, apparently. Like in the movies." "Yeah?" "Yeah." He leaned toward her. "Would you like that?" He touched her cheek and felt a tear. His hand withdrew. He laid on his back and stared at the ceiling. "What else happened? Where were you?" Her voice grew louder. It quivered. "I want to know. I..." Her throat tightened, sealing off the words. She flipped over and placed her head on his chest. "No. I'm sorry. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. Only..." She

vhat passes for love pushed her hair back from her eyes. They were both naked under the covers. She rubbed her breasts against his arm, reached down with her hand and got him erect. She mounted him, whispering, "Do you love me, baby? Do you love me? Tell me, now. Tell me. Come on, baby." Karl remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the barely visible crack in the ceiling. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped, then opened his mouth again. "Do you feel safe?" he asked. "Safe? Is that what you asked me?" "Yes. Do you feel safe?" "I..." She was nearing orgasm. "Yes. It's OK. It's my period. It's OK." She rocked gently on top of him with her head buried in his neck. "Tell me, baby. Tell me you love me," she moaned softly. Karl stared at the ceiling — at the crack. His body trembled. A few tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. His jaw and lips moved but no words were forthcoming. The crack appeared to grow bigger. Do you feel safe? he thought. Do you feel safe? Beth trembled; she breathed deeply. "Tell me, baby. Tell me. Tell me. For God's sake..."

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tne ant

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1i

•* She moves along the sidewalk. How? Briskly. Ts is good. And she weaves. Also good. She threads her way through the crowd, leading with her feet, her body bending around and following, then erect again, almost imperceptibly. Very nice. Very, very nice.Graceful,in an unpractised fashion. Natural. Animal. A style that develops of its own accord from within, then through the body. She is one of the challenging types. A person with a purpose. A destination. A time constraint. This is obvious. She checks her watch and adjusts her gait. Not much. A little. The stride of her legs a touch longer (given the restriction caused by her skirt: tight and clinching, raised just above the knees; snug across the buttocks [a strange word, buttocks, no?]); her steps a tad quicker. No, not much, but enough to gain some distance (or close some distance, depending on your position). While she is likely not oblivious to her sur-

6O the ant ga

roundings there appears to be nothing which distracts her or draws her attention for any length of time. Her head fixes straight ahead for the most part, only occasionally twisting to one side or the other. In this manner, she winds around, and past, more and more people. From a certain perspective it might almost seem that she senses something and is (in fact) using these slower bodies as blockers.lmost.Though probably not. Certainly, there are no other outward signs. Except for this one thing, she acts calm enough, neither looking back over her shoulder nor pushing people out of the way. She is intent, yes, but calm. Her walk is rapid, but not hurried. Brisk. Comfortable. She manoeuvres, suddenly (though not suddenly, merely does), between half a dozen people and, dance-like, without missing a beat, rounds the corner. These half a dozen bodies converge and advance. Another person (separate), steps out from a shadowed doorway brandishing a Bible and poses: "IS THERE A WAY.TO SAVE THE WORLD FROM WAR, FROM CORRUPTION, FROM GREED, FROM POLLUTION, FROM EVERLASTING HELLFIRE? YES, MY FRIEND! THERE IS A WAY AND THE WAY IS JESUS!" And the way is snarled; dammed by a creep of tourists, hawkers and window shoppers. If there was a strategy at work here, it worked. The woman has vanished.

2.

•» This one is different. A businessman, judging from the uniform. Though maybe not. Many men wear suits and ties these days. Especially downtown. It's not unusual. Tn fact, it's common. Why was he chosen? I don't know. Well, one reason. He holds a folded newspaper in his left hand and a briefcase in his right. Again, not unusual, except, here, the man uses both objects as weapons. Quite unknowingly, you understand.

WHAT PASSES FOR L

You've often seen the type, I'm sure. Whether male or female, young or old, fat or thin, this type manages to take up the entire sidewalk. People walking toward this type invariably give a wide berth, so much so that they invariably bump other pedestrians or scrape against walls or step off the curb and onto the street. Sometimes the results are disastrous. There are accidents. Property is damaged; people are hurt, even killed. Sometimes. The odd occasion. I mean, it's on record should anyone care to verify. At any rate, it is as if there is an invisible force field around the man, when, in reality, it is simply that his body rocks back and forth, his elbows jut out from his sides, his arms sway in all directions and anything in his hands (in this instance, the newspaper and briefcase) become accessories to mayhem.'And, if it is difficultfor anyone to avoid a frontalencounter with the man, it is pretty near impossible to go around from behind. And, of course, he (this type)s never in a hurry and is forever stopping to look into a store window or stare toward the direction of a normal traffic sound or at the top of a building or a gum wrapper at his feet or even his watch. He .stops to look at his watch? Why? God knows. Naturally, this causes numerous problems behind him in terms of pedestrian congestion and pile-up, which is annoying in itself, BUT, what is most annoying is this: whatever happens as a result of his actions never affects him personally, nor does he accept any blame in the distress or injury befallen others. The good thing, I suspect (and thereason he was chosen), is that the man is extremely difficult to lose. Even unseen, his whereabouts are unmistakable. As now, with the crowd knotted and a few brave souls passing him via the street or fighting their way among the frantic cars in order to reach the other side. Horns blast, tires squeal, drivers rant and swear while proceedscare-less-ly,south on Yonge Street, then right, going west on Queen to Bay,

62 the ant g then crossing the courtyard to City Hall, progressing through the main doors to the stairs, up one floor where he enters a large office area, locates his desk and sits. Easy. Too easy. One almost might have wished: a red light, a fire engine, a Bible thumper, a total solar eclipse. Almost. Almost, but not quite. No. Definitely, not quite.

2,

/ •» Goes into a convenience store and buys a newspaper. OK. Buys a chocolate bar as well. OK. Comes out of the convenience store, unwraps the chocolate bar, tosses the wrapper on the floor and eats the bar. OK. Goes along the hall to the lottery booth and buys a ticket. OK. Goes out the door, down the stairs, crosses the street, enters the subway, uses a pass, goes into McDonald's and orders a burger, fries and a soft drink. The food is put into a bag. OK. Comes out, goes down the stairs, around the corner, stops to buy a PEOPLE magazine. OK. Goes down the next set of stairs and finds a place on the platform. OK. Opens the newspaper. It's the SUN. OK. Steps onto the train and sits. Reads the paper. Eats a few fries. OK. Gets out at Bathurst. OK. Goes down the platform, up the escalator, out the door, left on Bathurst to Bloor and into the bank. OK. Uses the bank machine. OK. Comes out of the bank and goes east to Brunswick. OK. Turns north on Brunswick, goes up half a block and enters the walkway of a house. OK. Goes up the stairs, puts the key in the lock, opens the door, goes inside, closes the door. OK. Done.

4-

\ * "Did you hear the news? Someone was w down the street the other day and turned into a restaurant. " (HAHAHahahaha...)

vhat passes for lov

5

•» Her. She looks like she might be worth a gander. lice legs. Nifty little outfit. Not that that matters. Still... Probably a secretary or something. Finished work for the day and going... where? For a drink? But, she wouldn't go alone. Or would she? Maybe meeting friends. A boyfriend. Yeah. Don't think she's heading home just yet. Doesn't look like it. Maybe going to do some shopping. Yep, that's it. There she goes. I'll just wait out here for a few minutes. Hope she isn't one of those buy-out'the-uihole-store types. Nope. Out already and on the move. Going somewhere alright. Must've figured out she's running behind. I'll have to pick up the pace a bit myself if I want to keep close. Hold it! She's stopped. Howcum? I'll just duck in here. Is she looking behind her? No. She's going down the escalator. Better shift gears. What the hell! She's standing at the bottom. Waiting for me? She's not looking this way. She's opening her purse. What's she after? A can of Mace? A fucking whistle? Maybe I should just backtrack a bit. Naw! She hasn't spotted me. No way. And what if she has? I'm not doing anything wrong. I haven't bothered her. It's a free world. It's a free mall. I've got as much right to be here as she does. I can go where I want. No skin off her ass. Anyway, she's just reading something on a piece of paper. Man, now she's off and running like a goddamn rocket. I wish the hell she'd make up her mind; either go or stop... oh oh! Now what? Who's she talking to? A security guard? Sure as shit! And they're both lookin' this way. At me? Or someone behind me?

6

V^ -» I've seen him around quite o lowing young women.Usually,hough not necessarily. Young, attractive women. Usually. Like this one now. Quite attractive. Smart dresser. Terrific legs. And

&4r the ant game

nervous. He'll have trouble with this one if he isn't careful. She looks like the type who expects to bump into a mugger or a rapist every time they turn a corner. Oh — he's stopped. So has she. Does she see him? Does he think she's seen him? Maybe. He's ducked into a doorway. But she's on her way again and so is he. I'll just keep to the wall. Now he's stopped at the top of the escalator. No, he's on it. He doesn't seem happy though. Has he lost her? Is she down there, waiting for him? She is down there. She's reading something on a piece of paper. Now she's looking away. And there she goes! He's not even halfway down. He's going to lose her for sure if he doesn't move it. What's his problem? Why doesn't he go? It's like he's frozen. Oh, I see... she's grabbed a security guard. What's she telling him? That some creep is after her? Wait a minute! That's not a security guard. It's some Salvation Army guy trying to push some religious material on her. She's trying to go around him but he's not about to let her. Now they're both looking this way. At him? So what's he gonna do? He's looking up here. Does he spot me? No. He's looking this way, but not at me. He's checking out the whole area. What's he thinking? He looks like he's seen a ghost or something. The woman has the same look. Now the Salvation Army guy is doing the same thing — looking behind him. What the hell's going on? Now he's taking off. Where's he going? Does he think they're going to come after him? Does he think that guy's a security guard? Wait a second... the woman's disappeared! So has the Bible thumper. Now there's someone else looking over his shoulder. And now he's taking off! There's another one! And a woman! And that young couple! Everyone's looking behind them! Not at me. Some of them, yes. Not all of them. All over the place. Looking back behind them and taking off. They all seem scared of something. What? They're in a panic. They see something. They

what passes for know something. Look at them! Going crazy! Running into each other trying to escape. Tearing at each other. Knocking each other over. Punching and kicking each other. And what about me? Shouldn't I turn around as well? Shouldn't I look over my shoulder and see if anything or anyone is standing behind me? Threatening me. Spying on me. Recording my every move. Yes, I should. And I do. And there is. And now I am running as well. Pushing my way through the crowd as well. Attempting to escape as well. And what about you1. Are you now wondering too? Does your head bng to turn? Do your eyes ache to see what or who is standing behind you at this moment? Breathing down your neck or pressed into a dark corner? Or have you already made the move; looked behind you? And are you now running as well? Well, are you? Are you?

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T

he two of them were walking up the hall, Wanda leading the way and Allan following close behind. He was humming under his breath, not a tune, not anything you could call a song or even part of a song, just a sort of nonsense; just a sort of snatch of nothing-in-particular. Wanda put the key into the lock, swung the door a crack, then must've thought better of it since she quickly pulled the door shut and turned to Allan. "What is that song you keep humming?" Her words were short, to the point and more than a little put-off sounding. "Song? Was I...?" Allan peered over her shoulder to a spot on the door as if trying to retrace the events leading up to Wanda's abrupt shift in gears. "You didn't know?" "No. I mean, I wasn't aware..." "Great."

JO \ don't nave "It was probably nothing. Just noise. It's a habit, I think." "Uh-huh. Listen, there's a couple of things I want to get straight right away; a couple of things you should know." "Look, I'm sorry if my humming bothered you. I mean, it's not a real habit, y'know? I can stop myself. I don't have to..." "That's not it." "No?" "No. That's...This is something else. Something...! want to make sure that you understand...that we have an understanding about a couple of things." Allan was trying to make the leap from the 'humming' question to the 'couple-of-things' understanding, but with no luck. He shrugged and said, "OK." Not that it mattered if he said anything or not; Wanda was into her spiel and hardly took time for a breath, never mind wait for Allan to reply. "Number one: I agreed for you to drive me home tonight because we met at Laura's party and you're a friend of Laura..." "Yeah, well, we're..." "Number two: I'm inviting you in for coffee or a drink because it is the least I can do..." "I told you, it was no trouble, I..." "Number three: I don't jump into bed with a man I've only just met at a party..." "Hey, I never expected..." "Number four, you saw me in that movie, Death on the Rocks, right?" "Yeah, I told you. I thought you were very good." Is that it? he thought, I didn't stroke her performance enough?

what passes for love J\

"Those weren't my tits." "Hm?" "Those tits you saw in the movie that you thought were mine? They weren't. They were someone else's" "Someone else's?" Allan knew that he was repeating Wanda's words. He hated when people did that to him and he hated it more when he did it to other people. It was a stall tactic. Everyone knows. But what else could he do? He was being buried, for no good reason he could figure, and no easy way out he could see. What the hell was the problem here? Wanda continued without a pause. "Happens all the time. They hired me for my acting and they hired some other woman for her tits." "They hired some other woman...?" He was doing it again, he knew, though it didn't seem to matter to Wanda, she had her own agenda already worked out. "That's right. A 'body double', they call it." "I know. I've heard of it. They made a movie...Melanie Griffith and someone..." "Don't get me wrong. I'm not a prude. I don't have a problem being naked for a part. It's just that given a choice between showing my tits and someone else's, they chose someone else's. I didn't 'measure up.' You know what I'm saying?" Allan didn't know what she was saying, exactly. Maybe it was the movie industry; maybe it was the fickle finger of fate. A bitterness, maybe. Thinking back over the evening he couldn't see that there had been a problem with him or with anything he'd said, though you never know. You never know what it might take to set a person off. "Yeah, sure," he stalled, "you're saying..." "I'm saying that I'm not the woman you think I am.

72. i don't Have a problem

I'm not the woman you're expecting me to be." "Look, I told you, I never..." Allan could see that, for Wanda, the pieces were falling nicely into place and she was almost at the end. If there was a picture forming, he couldn't see it; or if he could see it, it wasn't making any sense. "The woman with the perfect tits is not me. Beneath this baggy sweater is just more baggy sweater. Now, does that disappoint you, or what?" The pause was unexpected. Allan was still waiting for the other shoe to fall; the incriminating evidence; the piece of the puzzle that points a finger and places him at the scene of the crime. 'Does that disappoint you?' Is that what she asked? "Well, I don't know. I..." "You don't know?" "What I mean is..." "Never mind! Forget it. You don't have to say anything. It's written all over you. I should have known. As soon as you mentioned that movie I knew we were doomed." "Give me a chance, will ya? It's not like that. I..." "No. Forget it. It's too late. It was too late from the start. Thanks for the ride. It was nice meeting you. I'm sorry it had to end this way. Goodnight." Wanda turned the knob and entered her apartment. "But..." said Allan, as the door closed. "Listen!" He leaned against the frame. "You're wrong. I was just a bit...surprised." He knocked softly, then slightly louder. "Hello? Hello? Can I call you?" He put his ear to the door. From inside, music played. "I'll call you." The music grew louder. Allan shook his head, turned, and made his way down the hall. Under his breath he repeated, I'll call you. I will. I'll call you.

what passes for love 75

It was the following morning. Wanda was busy wolfing down a slice of toast and jam when the phone rang. She moved closer but didn't pick up the receiver. She let it ring. She let it ring until the answering machine kicked in. "Hi. You've reached 666-6666 — ain't that the devil? Leave your name and number after the beep and I'll get back to you — when hell freezes over! Haha." There was a beep and woman's voice on the other line. "Wanda, it's me. Answer the phone. I know you're there." "Hi, Lees." "Good morning. How ya' doin'?" "Terrific. I'm on my way out." "Where to?" "Job." "Which one?" "Don't know, don't care. One of them. I'll know when I get there. What's up?" "Can you be at an audition at two this aft?" "Depends." "Yes?" "If they want me from the neck up or the knees down, I can make it." "Don't tell me — you met another guy who saw Death on the Rocks? And he failed the 'boob' test; or passed it, depending on how you look at it, right? C'mon — be positive! At least you know there are people seeing the flick." "I took the part hoping no one would see it. You said yourself it would probably never even get finished."

/4- i don't have a p "I was wrong. So sue me. What have you got to complain about anyway? You've become a hot item." "My tits have become a hot item." "Not to worry. It's a phase people go through. Where's your sense of humour? Besides, you were blessed with a gorgeous set of breasts. Don't be so uptight; enjoy it!" "Breast: i) either of two protuberant milk-producing glandular organs situated on the front of the chest in the human female and some other mammals; ii) the fore or ventral pan of the. body between the neck and the abdomen; Hi) the seat of emotion and thought." "Don't tell me you have that memorized?" "Tit: a small or inferior horse; a nag." "Wanda, you're overreacting." "I know I'm over-reacting. I can't help it." "It'll pass. Everything passes." "Yeah, yeah. Like the plague." "That's the spirit. So, can you make the audition or what?" "If they want an actress, I'll be there. If they want a pair of tits — fax my picture." "Wanda..." "I'll be there, I'll be there. What's the address?"

Just as Allan was about to take the step up to the restaurant Wanda came charging out the door, her coat half-on, half-off, the strap of her purse clenched between her teeth. There was no avoiding it. The two met headon, sending Allan ass-backward to the pavement. "Bastards!" said Wanda, then in almost the same breath, "I'm sorry. Are you OK?"

what passes for love 75

Allan got up and dusted himself off. "Fine," he said. "No broken bones. How 'bout you? Are you OK?" "OK?" Wanda looked at Allan as if for the first time; as if she just now recognized him. "Of course I'm OK. Don't I look OK?" "No. No, you look...distraught." "I look what?" "Distraught." "Distraught? Where did you dig that up?" "I don't know. It was the first word that popped into my head. It seems to have worked though." "What are you talking about?" Wanda slipped her free arm into the loose sleeve of her coat. "You're calmer. The word, I think. It took your mind off.. .whatever." "Yeah? Yeah, I guess it did. It's an odd word." Allan wasn't sure whether he'd caught her interest or if she was only momentarily caught off-guard. The best thing, he figured, was to keep the conversation moving. "So, what's up? What happened inside?" Wanda was about to speak, then made the quick double-take between the restaurant and Allan. "Were you looking for me?" The question was pointed and rather harsh. Allan could see the gears slipping into place and he wasn't sure he liked the direction she was heading. "I wanted to see you again. Talk about what happened last night." "How did you know where to find me?" "Laura. I phoned you but I only got your answering machine." "I know you phoned. How did you get my number? Laura? Christ!"

J6 i don't nave a problem "No. I looked it up in the phone book. 'Paige' with an T right? And women always just list their first initial. Besides, I knew your address." "You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" She started to move away. "That's a very interesting phone message you have." "What do you want?" The thing about Wanda was, she didn't beat around the bush. "I told you — I want to talk about last night." "There's nothing to talk about." On that score, she was more or less right. In her mind, everything was settled. The best thing to do at this point was to change the subject, put the ball back into her court. "What happened just now? In the restaurant?" Wanda gave a sharp glare and took a step back to the window. "Oooooh...some 'guy,' some 'customer' thought he was being smart. Tried to play reach-for-the-glass-grabthe-breast. Dickhead!" "What did you do?" "What do you think? I dumped the whole tray in his lap: water, wine, fettuccine — the works. Then the manager comes running over and immediately sides with the customer without even asking my side of the story. I said, 'Listen, if I'm going to have some stranger grab my boob, it's going to cost him a helluva lot more then a ten percent tip.' She wanted me to apologize." "Yeah?" "Yeah. So I took off my apron and told her she could shove the job up her ying-yang." "You seem to have this thing about your breasts." "I don't have a thing about my breasts. Men have a thing about my'breasts. I'm perfectly comfortable about

vnat passes for lov

my breasts." "That's what I meant. I mean, it's not really your breasts they're after, right? It's someone else's." "What? Oh, yeah, right." "Can we go for coffee or something? A drink?" "No. I can't. I've got an appointment. An audition. I've got to get my head straight." She turned and made a slight motion with her hand indicating that the conversation was over. "What about another time?" Allan spoke to her back. "Tomorrow night?" "Call me." Her voice trailed. "Will you answer?" "I don't know. I'll think about it."

The phone rang and Wanda waited for the answering machine; waited for the voice on the other end to announce itself. "Wanda — it's me, Leesa, your friendly neighbourhood agent. I bear good tidings." She paused for the receiver to be picked up. "Yeah?" "You got the part." "You mean they got the parts." "You want me to turn it down or what? You've got to get over this. It isn't healthy. Remember what I keep saying?" "Yeah, I know — Greta Scacchi. Fine. I'll take it. I mean, it's only fatty tissue, right?" "They said you were very good," "Thanks, Lees, really. Really, it's great news. It is. Maybe I can finally stop all this part-time job bullshit."

J8 i don't nave a "Good girl. I'll fill you in on the details as soon as I know myself. Ciao!" "Ciao." As she put down the receiver the phone rang again. She waited for the message. It was a man's voice. Wanda sat and lit a cigarette. "Hi. It's me. Again. Are you there? OK. I've reached a decision. I'm going to sit here pressing the redial button and use up all your message tape until you make up your mind to talk to me. I have something to say and I want you to believe me. I'm not a breast man. Honest. Women with large, round, perfectly-shaped firm breasts don't do a thing for me. I wouldn't know what to do with them. I wouldn't know where to begin. Give me a woman with small breasts and rosy-red nipples any day. Small breasts, for me, indicate a woman of intelligence, character and bearing. It's true. Furthermore, I didn't even recognize you as the woman in the movie. If Laura hadn't told me I never would've known. Anyway, by that time I was already enjoying your company. I already knew I wanted to see you again." Wanda gave a heavy sigh, squashed out her cigarette and picked up the phone. "Hi." "Hi." "Are you telling me the truth?" "Not entirely." "Great!" "I mean, the last part is true. I didn't recognize you. You look different in person. Or on screen, whatever." "Yeah?" "The bit about the breast size — I was trying to be funny." "I wasn't laughing."

what passes for lo "Not even a little?" "Maybe a little." "A little is good. A little is better than not at all." "Anything else?" "I saw the movie again. Twice." "Yeah? Spill any butter in your lap?" "It was research." "Oh — then you really are Sherlock Holmes?" "And you know what I think? I think that's really you in the picture and those really are your breasts." "Yeah, and?" "So what's the big deal? I mean, it's all been done before, right? Happens all the time. You're an actor. You were doing a part. Why should it get in the way of us getting to know each other better?" "Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just..." "What?" "It's new to me. And I feel..." "Violated?" "Christ no! Not that. It's just...the idea of meeting some guy for the first time and, even if I think I might like him, I can't help knowing that he has some sort of intimate knowledge about me. I guess that's it. He has an intimacy about me that I don't have about him. It's unbalanced. I'm at a disadvantage." "Hey, if it makes you feel better, I'll show you a film of me in the buff. I'm only three, but the parts are all there." "It's silly I know," she laughs. "I'm being stupid. So, what do you think? Still want to see me?" "Sure. When?" "Tonight? We could go out for a bite. Talk" "Great. I'll be by around eight?" "Yeah."

SO i don't have a p

Allan hesitated outside the door before he knocked, and even when he did, the knock was short and light. Wanda swung the door open with a flourish. "Hi. I thought it was you." "Hi." Allan stood in the doorway. "You're right on time. I'll get my coat." "Yeah. OK." "Or did you want the tour first?" "No. That's fine." "You seem a bit funny. Anything wrong?" "Nothing wrong, no. Just..." "Just?" "Well, I'm not exactly sure what it is. I mean, I think I know, but it seems ridiculous." "So, tell me." "I thought this would be easy. I mean, I thought that I'd have no problem." "What are you saying?" Wanda's easy manner disappeared. "That you figured you'd just come over and I'd drag you off to bed?" "No, that's not it. What I thought was that I'd have no problem with the breast-thing. That I wouldn't think about them; that I could just ignore them and we'd go out and have a nice evening. Get to know one another, like I said." "Uh-huh?" "But ever since I spoke with you this afternoon, all I've been able to think about..." "Are my breasts." "Yeah. Or rather, the breasts I saw in the movie. I can't get the picture of them out of my head. I mean, even when I walked through the door, my eyes went

what passes for love SI

directly for...And then, talking to you — I want to look you in the face, but my eyes are drawn.. .down. It's crazy. I mean, you're wearing a big, baggy sweater. There's no reason, yet..." "So what do you want to do?" There was no malice in her voice. She was more inquisitive-sounding than anything; almost playful. After all, there were a few directions this could lead. "I think maybe we should pass tonight. I don't think I could take it. I'm afraid I might do something that I'll regret." "What? Rape me?" "No, of course not. Not physically at any rate. Just, 'in my head.' I don't know. It sounds weird, but there it is." "Maybe I can put your mind at ease." She smiled and put on her coat. "Yeah? How?" "Those breasts you saw in the movie?" "Yeah?" "I told you — they're not mine." She stepped out the door. "But..." "C'mon, Sherlock. I'm hungry." She took him by the arm and closed the door. "I was watching very closely." "Smoke and mirrors, pal. Smoke and mirrors. Besides, you know there's only one way you're going to find out for sure..." "You mean..." "Uh-huh. But it won't be tonight." "No?" "No." She grinned and led Allan toward the stairs. Under her breath she hummed — not a tune, not anything you could call a song or even part of a song, just a sort of nonsense; just a snatch of nothing-in-particular.

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once upon a time

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W

hat he had told her about was a situation that had occurred a few years ago now. Quite a few years ago. Quite a few years and quite a few jobs and more than a few relationships they had gone through between them before they had met and eventually tied the knot together — more than a few marriages, as well, and kids scattered across the country. Norm wasn't sure how the story had even come up. It was Christmastime. They had been talking about the old days or some such thing. Nothing too serious; nothing too deep or revealing — just conversation. The story had simply emerged, as if by chance. The way Norm saw it, it could as easily have come from her. Though, maybe not. If he could have prevented himself from telling it, if he had known what effect it would have on Carol, he never would have opened his mouth. At least, he would have thought twice. Then again, one thing had seemed to lead to another and,

So once upon a time

who knows? Also, they had been drinking Glayva. That must have been it — the Glayva. Norm was in university at the time. He was finishing a BA in English before getting his teaching degree. Along the way he was taking a couple of theatre courses and doing a bit of acting. "I was in a play that was closing and there was an after-party in the space," he'd told Carol. "The space was the basement of an art gallery in Gastown. A woman came over to me and said hello. Her name was Amber." "You remember her name?" Carol had asked. "Sure. I mean, it was unusual. I've never known another Amber. Besides, I'd met her a time or two before; I'd seen her around the university. We weren't complete strangers. In fact, the last time I'd seen her was at a similar party and the two of us — somehow over the course of the evening and obviously after much to drink — managed to begin playing each other's bodies like musical instruments, keeping rhythm to the music coming from the stereo. Her date was not amused by our behaviour. It was a bit crazy, I admit, but more-or-less innocent fun. More-or-less, although, if given the opportunity...Anyway, this same guy was with her again at the after-party, but off in a corner talking with some other people. Amber said she'd enjoyed the show and I said thanks and gave a nod in the direction of her date. She was a bit high already. She shrugged and said, he's sweet, but he's young. I was going to ask her what that was supposed to mean when I was handed a beer by one of the other cast members. "Another young guy joined us, an actor. He spoke rather friendly to Amber and I wondered if anything

vnat passes for love &J was going on between them. She was a good-looking woman and had a certain aura about her that naturally attracted men. At least, it seemed that way to me, maybe because I was also attracted. The guy wandered off after a few minutes and I said something about feeling daggers coming at me from two directions. Three, she said, and tilted her beer toward an older, distinguished-looking fellow who was smiling her way. I recognized him as a professor at the university. He walked over and asked if we wanted to step outside for a toke. Amber accepted. I thought it might be wiser to stay and drink my beer inside. "When she returned I said this must be her lucky night — three men after her. I was playing it cool. She made a sound with her lips, stared straight at me and said, only three? She spent the rest of the night mingling with the crowd, chatting with various men, but always made a point of coming back to me. At the end, I offered her a ride home and she said OK." "You like that?" Carol had interrupted. "Hm?" "Being chosen out of a field?" "I guess. It was flattering. I mean, how often does it happen?" Norm hadn't picked up anything negative in Carol's tone. It was just a question, so he had continued. Besides, the Glayva was going down nicely and he was being caught up in his story. "I'd packed a bottle of wine in the car in case the party moved. Amber said she had some hash at home, so away we went. Her roommate was awake when we arrived and the three of us sat around the kitchen table drinking wine and smoking hash and talking. We talked about dance, since the roommate was a dancer, and theatre, since Amber and I were into theatre, and

88 once upon a time

Edgar Allen Poe, since I had studied him and Amber was just into studying him. She told me that he wrote a particular poem — I don't remember which, Dream Land or Fairy Land or something while he was stoned. She said she knew this because she sees the same things when she's stoned. She even wrote a paper using this argument as her premise. Well, the prof wouldn't buy it — this turned out to be the same older fellow with the grass who was after her at the party — and I told her I didn't buy it either. It was too simple to call someone high or crazy rather than deal with the work. We went on like that, back and forth for awhile, then the three of us went to bed — her, me and Poe. The roommate had packed it in earlier. "Amber had one of those futons that doubles as a couch and a bed. The place was too small for a living room." "So she did most of her entertaining in the bedroom." Carol had spoken matter-of-factly, but to a point. "I just meant that it was pretty typical of a student's life. Do you want me to stop? If you want me to stop I will." "No. Go on. It's your story." "You're sure? You're not bothered by something?" "Should I be?" "No." "All right then..." "All right. So, we pulled the futon out and made ourselves comfortable. She asked me to read her a couple of Poe poems. Partway through one of them I could see she was dropping off. Finally, she gave up trying to keep her eyes open. She gave her head a shake and told me she was sorry, but she was too tired to make it and could it wait until morning. I said sure and we rolled

what passes for love 8J

over and fell asleep." "To make it? Is that what she said?" "Yeah." Norm had waited for something further from Carol. When it hadn't materialized he'd topped up their glasses. It'd seemed to him that Carol was interested, or at least curious, about the outcome. "I was awake first. There was enough morning light coming in through the window to see without flipping a switch so I poked around her bookshelf. I pulled out something by William S. Burroughs. When Amber opened her eyes she saw me with the book. 'Great,' she said. 'I wake up with a man in my bed and he's reading Burroughs.' I was at a part with young boys lying naked in the sun and being 'smooth and green as lizards on the rocks.' "We drank wine and ate banana muffins in bed while she told me the story of how Burroughs and his wife were stoned out of their skulls and decided to play William Tell with a loaded gun. Mrs. B put a glass on her head while Mr. B aimed and fired. Good-bye Mrs. B. He hit her square between the eyes. Dead as a doornail. "We made love, then had a bath together in one of those big, old bathtubs with the clawed feet. You know, the kind you can really stretch out in and relax. We went back to bed after that and had sex again. The first time we'd both been pretty drowsy. Afterward, she said we should go for a walk or get something to eat somewhere because a friend was supposed to be coming by with some coke. He wanted to get ripped, drive across the border on his motorcycle and drink some cheap American beer. She said she didn't really want to hang around and have to explain anything to him. Especially the fact that she was spending the day with me rather than him." "And you had sex with this woman?"

5>O once upon a time

"What do you mean?" "I mean..." Carol was about to say something, but stopped herself and said instead, "Did you use protection?" "C'mon. This was back in the Stone Age, right? It was the sixties. The west coast. Everyone was playing it wild and loose. I mean, it was her period; she was on the Pill. That's all that mattered. Nobody thought about...It wasn't an issue then." Norm had watched Carol pull away from him on the couch and he remembered thinking that the only thing to do at this point was keep on going. He had felt that it was the only way he had to make her understand; the only way he had to make her see that the story he was trying to tell her had less to do with sex and more to do with...something else. The sex needed to be mentioned, but it was bound up in something that lay outside the physical; something grander. It was nothing he could name. It was certainly nothing he could easily explain, especially in a sentence or two. It was more an idea or a feeling. The story had to do with the total being more than the sum of its parts. And one of those parts had to do with the two of them tonight — him and Carol and where they stood with each other, though Norm wasn't exactly sure how or why. He only knew that the story had to be told and it had to be told in this fashion. "It was November. The morning was cold and clear. We walked into a little Vietnamese restaurant, pooled our money and ordered some food and two beers. There were Christmas lights flashing in the window. They must've stayed up all year. Amber said that at home, when she was a girl, her father always bought a bottle of Glayva to serve after Christmas dinner. The kids were even given a small shot. We checked the drink menu and saw that it was listed. We decided to

what passes for splurge and ordered two glasses for dessert. Then we ordered two more. And two more. They were pretty reasonably priced, but we were both students, remember, and the money we had on the table was supposed to last us each the week. There was five bucks left and I said, you take it. She asked if it was enough for another round of Glayvas. I said yes, and we called for two more. "Our conversation was Poe because I'd read him, Burroughs because I hadn't, a play she was directing, the writing we were doing or were going to do, the fact that her roommate had whispered to her the night before that she should have brought the young guy home instead of me, lousy jobs we'd had, lack of money and the complete meaninglessness of just about everything that most people find important. She told me her idea for opening a crepe house. Why not? she said. People have to eat. She was tired of being a starving artist and tired of all the bullshit suffering that went along with it. You only live once, she said. Besides, she enjoyed cooking for people — she might as well get paid for it. We talked for hours and there was nothing trivial. Maybe because none of it was real. It was all dreams and dreaming. It was like a page lifted from a favourite book. It was life reflecting art and it was beautiful and it was sad and it was totally unrealistic and, I suppose, looking back, totally irresponsible." Norm had suspected he'd used the word irresponsible for Carol's benefit and had given her a quick glance. She'd been sitting very still and had a serious look about her, a look that Norm was familiar with — she was turning things over in her head. Norm hadn't even wanted to try and guess. He emptied his glass and tried to wrap up his story. "When we made our good-byes there were a few

5*2 once upon a time

words to do with the motion of the planets and the alignment of the stars. It was a kind of excuse because we both knew that it could never happen that way again. Not between the two of us, at any rate. We knew it shouldn't even be tried, and yet...you wonder. We didn't exchange numbers, the semester was almost over, we were headed in different directions. Everything was about to shift over a short period of time. I mean, within two years, instead of being taught, I was teaching. I was out of one world and into another. It was the end and it was the beginning and there was no escaping it. No way in the world." Norm had watched Carol put down her glass, stand, begin to walk away, stop and speak. "Did you tell me all this just to hurt me?" Norm had tried to answer her, but it was impossible. He could only sit and allow her to go to the bedroom and shut the door behind her. He poured himself another Glayva. He thought about a news article he had read somewhere. It had said that more people die, get divorced, commit suicide around Christmas than at any other time of the year. It made a certain kind of sense. He tried to think back to his previous marriages in order to discover when they had finished. He tried to remember past Christmases in general. It was no use. Even last year, with Carol, was a blur. There were only small moments, flashes — and not very important ones in most instances — out of his entire lifetime that stood out in his mind. Memories. Some vague, some vivid and no way of knowing how much truth or falsehood was contained in either. He wondered what Carol was doing in the other room; what was going through her mind. He considered going to her and telling her that what had hap-

what passes for love 5*5

pened was a long time ago, in a different city, under different circumstances. He wasn't the same person he was then — who is? But then he thought, what's the point? He had told the story the only way he knew how and she hadn't understood. Anything else would sound like an apology. Anyway, even he had lost the thread by now; even he had difficulty understanding both the story and why he'd brought it up in the first place. Everything was breaking into tiny bits in front of him. He was suddenly aware that nothing could be counted on. In a few days or a few weeks, tonight would be just another fading memory — imperfect, insubstantial and impossible to communicate to anyone. He'd have his version, Carol would have hers, and who knows whether there'd be any middle ground or not. Who knows whether the two of them would even be talking or even be together after tonight. Besides, had it ever really happened to him, that evening so many years before? In that way? Had anything ever really happened to him? Norm closed his eyes and raised the glass to his nose. He sniffed the Glayva and tried to remember. He didn't know what. He didn't care. Anything.

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we' re righ the middle o

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S

o there we are, OK? I mean, we're right in the middle of it, for godsakes. I couldn't believe it. I still can't believe it. I want to pinch myself or something. He's inside me. He's moving. Everything's feeling good. I mean, everything's feeling real good. I have no idea. Not an inkling. I'm just enjoying it. I mean, it's the first time, y'know? The first time in, I dunno, awhile, weeks, that I feel like I'm going to orgasm. During the actual intercourse, I mean. Without, you know, doing something to help it along myself. I had orgasmed. He's sweet that way; in fact, only too happy to do whatever it takes if I'm in the mood for an orgasm. Sometimes I'm not. But when I am, he's there. You're not upset by this, right? Me telling you. The details, I mean. It's nothing new. I've told you this before, right? It's just facts. It doesn't mean anything. The point being that, during intercourse, unassisted, so to speak, it had been at least

5>5 we're right in the middle or it

weeks; a long while. Don't ask me why it happens or doesn't happen. There's no logic that I've discovered. It's just the way I'm built; the way I am, I guess. The same as why it seemed to be happening then, or going to happen. You understand, yes? Only too well, hm? I don't know. I don't. He was the one who had started things in the first place. Which, when I think about it now, strikes me as very weird. Though, maybe not. Who knows. I mean who knows what goes on in a person's head? Anyway, we're making love, having sex — whatever — and I'm getting all warm and tingly and it's feeling just wonderful, him moving slowly in and out...I mean, I don't want to bore you with the banalities and I'm not trying to throw it in your face...I'm just telling you straight what was happening so that you'll understand, that's all. So what I'm saying is that there was nothing unusual except my feeling like I was about to come after, etcetera, etcetera. And maybe I wasn't paying particularly close attention or maybe I was too much into my own pleasure to notice, but, at some point, I start to feel this little quiver coming from him; from his body. And I think, oh no, not yet, not now; hold on for another minute; another three minutes. I know that sounds cliched, but what else was I supposed to think? I mean, I genuinely needed another few minutes, simple as that. Then he quivers some more and I think this is not that kind of quiver but something else. What something else? I don't know. I start to think he's got an itch; he's got a cramp. Don't, for chrissakes, I think, go and pull a muscle or something! Not at this stage of the game. But now his whole body starts to shake. I look up at him and ask what is it? What's wrong? And his face is all contorted and I feel my mind drifting away from my body. What is it? I ask.

what passes for love